All About a Barbie

I had the unfortunate experience to find myself in the mall a few weeks ago on my one precious afternoon off.  Apparently, after the age of 45, the punishment for myopia is either wearing reading glasses over your contact lenses, or wearing complicated eyeglasses.  If you don’t know what I am talking about, take a walk to the closest CVS and try on a pair of readers and it will all become very clear.

Anyway, my complicated glasses needed to be adjusted before the Seder, as they were so scratched, I literally could not see the words in the Hagaddah.  I was seated next to a bespectacled mother and her adorable son, who was clutching a bag from the Disney Store. He was begging her to play with his new Anna doll. 

In a hushed voice she suggested, “How about Olaf instead?”

“No, Mommy.  I want to play with Anna!”

“I told you, not until we are in the car.”

“But Mommy, why can I play with Olaf here and not with Anna?”

Now, the little boy is not having a fit, he’s just asking, but the mother is getting that panicky look on her face.  She glances at me, and shoots me that “I’m so sorry” look, and I can see she’s mortified.  I try to come up with an “I understand look,” but I’m not sure she sees me; she’s trying so hard to diffuse her “situation.”  The situation of her little boy wanting to play with a doll. 

When someone finally comes out to wait on us at the glasses repair counter, I offer to let them go ahead of me, but mom decides to take her son out of the store rather than have a scene.

As I wait while they work their magic (aka change the lenses and charge me accordingly)… I think about the playthings I had for my own children. 

Before we even had children, my husband and I had a lot of discussions about how to be as parents.  One of the biggies was no toy weapons in the house. I didn't get much push-back from my husband, though growing up, he and his brother had a bee-bee gun.  He also had some pretty terrible stories about that gun (and bee-bees in the ears) so he was fine with that.  (He had a much harder time with the “let’s go with only cloth diapers” conversation.)

And then we had our first baby.  David was beautiful, perfect little boy.  We filled his room with toys.  No weapons ever came into the house.  Ah, see how easy that is?  Our little house was filled with art toys and building toys and musical instruments. Stuffed animals and train sets.  Trucks and dinosaurs. 

When we learned that I was pregnant again, we got little David a Cabbage Patch doll so he could attend a “big brother” class, and there he learned about changing diapers, feeding with a bottle, and giving babies a bath.  When the class was over, he got a sticker that said he was a prepared big brother, and he barely played with the doll again.

When David was 3 ½ along came his sister, Emily.  He was doting and loving.  None of the typical jealousy that you hear about.  He “read” to her from his favorite books (which he had memorized) and helped pick out what she should wear.   As Emily grew, we stood by our “no weapons” rule with ease.  She was more into the art kits and the stuffed animals, and David, though not the greatest sharer, was always happy to play with her.

One day after a playdate with David’s two best friends, twin girls from pre-school, he came home and asked if I’d buy him a Barbie doll. I was a bit taken aback, and let it go.  I had never been allowed to have a Barbie, I am not into the whole Barbie thing as an adult.  I just don’t think it is a good image for women.  AND let’s face it,  David is a boy.  A few weeks later, David who is only about 4 now, tries a different angle with me.  He suggests that Emily (6 months old) might like a Barbie, because little girls like that.

The next time he has his playdate at the twins’ house, I go and hang out with their mom, who is also nursing a new baby.  We smile as the three kids are playing dress-up together.  And then they are playing Barbie dolls.  For Hanukkah, David’s babysitter asks if she can get him a Barbie, he wants one so much.  I say okay, but get a Ken too.   He is thrilled.  I even make her some clothes on my sewing machine.   Ken’s hands get chewed up by the dog, having been left lying on the floor.

Poor Ken.

Three and a half years later, and we welcome Samuel.  Born on Shavuot, and a gift to our family.  He’s our wild child from day one.  This little guy starts climbing out of his crib and running by 9 months. When David meticulously builds the Brio Train into a majestic web of intertwined tracks, and Emily builds the town center around the veterinary clinic, Sam bull-dozes it with a truck in each hand.  When David builds the marble machine to perfection and Emily times the red marble against the blue one, Sam knocks the whole thing down with the leg of the teddy bear she has just had me sew, and has put a “cast” on.   Sticker books are taken apart, and Sam is covered with Emily’s animal stickers.  David’s school projects are kept up on the mantle of the fire place or on his top bunk bed.  Child-proof gates at the stairs are a joke, more of a barrier for our poor dog than a deterrent for Sam.

But the kicker?  Everything… EVERYTHING has become a weapon.  The snorkel from last summer is a sword.  The hammer from the little workshop is a, well I don’t even know what, but it went everywhere with him.  Every tree branch is a gun or knife.   He gravitated to the Lego sets that had the pirates, or the knights.  And somehow the videos that were once benign Disney videos to the other two suddenly suggest violence to Sam.  He wore a cape every day.  (I had to send him to daycare with a dishtowel tucked in to the back of his shirt or he wouldn't get in the car.)

And then it happened.  My mother-in-law sent Sam, a cowboy gun and holster for his 3^rd birthday.  After that I said yes when my husband wanted to get the costume with the plastic sword and I tried to hide the gun. When Sam played, he put on armor.  Sometimes he got others to join in. Sometimes he just pretended by himself for hours.  As he got older he pretended with little figures.  They’d work out their battles.  They’d fight.  Sometimes little guys would die.  Then they’d get back up again and fight some more. I was more than a little worried about this streak in him, as I had never seen it in my other two children.

Do they even make these anymore??

And we suddenly we had weapons in the house. And more than that.  We had the Lego Pirate Ship. We had the Playmobile soldiers fort.  The Mystic Knights.  Zorro. We had costumes. Battle ships. Videos. 

So what happened to these two little boys and their sister?

Turns out, David is gay.  But that Barbie doll didn’t make him gay.  And letting him play the way he needed to play with no judgement on him undoubtedly allowed him to feel safe, at least at home.  Even at that young age, he identified that it was a “girl’s toy” but he liked it.   He is a teacher, and is deeply dedicated to his work.  His students love him and he makes a difference every day.

Sam is a gentle, peaceful soul. In fact he is a volunteer for Ultimate Peace, a Frisbee Camp in Israel that teaches Israeli Jewish and Palestinian children to work out their differences on the playing field.  Still in college, the only sword is wields is his wit.  He is one of those few people his age that can relate to children, teens, peers and adults. 

And their sister?  Well, Emily did not actually pursue becoming a veterinarian, despite the hints above.  One summer she interned in vet’s office and was so turned off, she changed direction.  She now works for a company that helps people afford solar heating for their homes.  This is her passion, and I kvell to see her thriving in a living that makes the world a better place.

So, did I have to change my direction? Yes. I learned that a child needs to play.  I decided not to put a limit on play, as long as no one was getting hurt.  I may not have quite understood what was happening, but whatever it was, they needed to get out through play.

I also learned that they charge a ridiculous amount for eyeglasses and for the Anna and Olaf dolls. And if your son would rather play with Anna or Elsa, it’s going to be okay.

You had me at Sochi

I was prepared to write another cynical blog post, something like my scathing rundown of the Superbowl.  This one was going to tear the Olympics apart and make fun of the whole thing, from the Opening Ceremony, through the costumes of skaters, and finally really lay in to the absurdity of the biathlon. (Ski, ski, ski, lie down, shoot, get up ski.  Really???)  I was very concerned, and still am, about the security of the athletes, and their families.  I was, and still am outraged by Putin's stance against the LGBT community.

But I can't write the piece I thought I was going to write.
Because I'm completely sucked in.

Yes.  Riveted, addicted, and glued to the games.

I have not watched every event, not by a long shot, but I have really enjoyed what I have watched, and fallen a little bit in love with each person, as I hear his or her story and and watch the mini-drama as it unfolds.

I didn't love the opening ceremony.  The pageantry was too much, and I felt it was too long. I didn't like seeing Putin sitting there, not reacting, with an uncanny resemblance to Dr. Evil. (I still see it, when they show him at the various events, and you will see it too.  No smiles, no excitement.  He is NOT a guy I'd want to go for cocktails with.)

"Tiny little 'laser beams' on their heads."

I have never been such a big fan of the winter Olympics before, but maybe it's because of the winter we are having here in New Jersey.  We have so much ice on our front walk and driveway that I can barely make it to my car without slipping and falling...how on EARTH do those men and women glide so effortlessly across the ice, twirling, swizzle-sticking, doing ballet, jumping and leaping and turning themselves into human dreidels?

Yes, that's what it must be... each of these athletes is competing and excelling in a sport that I cannot even do just a little bit.  I cannot ice skate.  That was not something we did back in my growing up years.  There was a roller rink, where I went once, and was helped around the place a few times by a handsome guy named Gino on a group date when I was 15.  But that's it.

The same goes for skiing.  I realize I may come off looking particularly non-sport-y as I share all this, but I have gone skiing exactly twice.  Cross-country skiing once, too hard, too cold and kind of boring.  And downhill once, where I was THE only one in the beginner class told NOT to go out onto the mountain.  I spent the day in the lodge by the fire drinking coffee and reading a book while my family had fun on the slopes.

So when I see these skiers and snow-boarders doing amazing tricks, or going 80 miles an hour down a hill, I am just in awe.  And some of them are wearing just a leotard!  I'm sure you've seen them.  They wear the layer I wear under my clothes just to walk to the car to go to work.  They fly down the mountain, or around the half-pipe, while I am not sure I can walk to the curb without taking a header.

They are super men and women.

Like I said, I didn't want to love these games.  With Russia's openly anti-gay stance I was ready to boycott. Yes, I was going to boycott (how they'd miss me) but these amazing young and not-so-young athletes are risking their bodies, dedicating their lives and flying around the world, I figured the least I can do is watch them.  And cheer them on.  And wait to see if anyone will take a brave stand and raise a rainbow flag on the podium.

And besides, after watching night after night, I'm an expert judge.  Aren't you?  Tara Lipinski and I can call the figure skating like nobody's business.  I can tell you if someone's going to nail a triple axel before they even land.  I've watched so much of the men's and women's half pipe, and I can tell you what a YOLO trick is. 

There are a few sports I've missed, such as hockey, and skeleton, which appears to be the backwards luge. I have to say I missed Bob Costas, who left the helm of the ship with pink-eye, but has finally returned.

Looks pretty pink, I'd say, Bob.

There was also a big to-do about the Russian speed skater who unzipped the top of her skating outfit when she crossed the finish line.  Apparently she forgot she had nothing on underneath.  That's a big thing to forget, but I guess when you are winning a gold medal for your country, you get a little crazy.

Hello World.

I haven't even looked at a medal count during these games. I'll be relieved when the athletes all come home safe and sound, maybe bruised from the mountain, but safe from any blast of a suicide bomb or explosion from a terrorist making a statement.  I know people say that we have to put aside our differences and come together for these two weeks of sports.  But I think its our differences that make us fun and make us interesting to one another.  It's learning to accept and play nice with our differences that should be what the Olympics are all about.  The athletes probably get that.  Maybe someday the governments and leaders will too.

And now, I'll get back to my front-steps-of-death and try to take my dogs for a walk.  I may do a double-toe loop followed by a jump off the bottom step, but it won't be on purpose.

Real scenes from my front-steps of death, taken by my frozen-mittened hand holding an iPhone and two dogs on leashes.  I win at least a bronze in the suburban Olympics!

Parenting 101

This happened.


At a party last week, I was cornered by a long-time acquaintance whose three children are each about eight or ten years older than my three kids.  She wanted to know my "secret" to parenting.


"How did you manage to keep your kids Jewish?  How is it that they still are so respectful?  How did you get them to get along with each other so well?"


"Um, Dianna, isn't it a bit late for you and your kids?"


Luckily she assumed  I was making a joke, took it with a smile and said that she's working on her doctorate. She was looking for information on birth order and parenting.  I assured her I'd give her all my parenting "secrets," but just not right then, as we were making our way to the the dinner table.  I started to think about what I'd tell her if she did call me.


You make a lot of decisions when you are a  parent.  (Well, I hope you do...)  This is part one of what I think will be a multi-part blog piece with some thoughts about raising kids to be healthy, mentschy, "normal" human beings in this not-so-normal world.


Before we even had children, and certainly when they were very young parents, my husband and I were deliberate in our choices... We will raise our three children in a house that promotes peace, and love. I believed then, and believe now that every generation must be the next generation that comes closer to an understanding of true peace.  I wanted our home to reflect what I teach in my classes.  

• No weapons in the house. 

• Toys will be gender neutral.  

• No violence on television.

• No cursing or negative, hateful language.

Hah hah hah.

The first time we were challenged just slightly with our crazy gender neutral parenting ideas was when our oldest, "Daniel," was in nursery school.  He must have been 4, and our daughter, "Maya" was 1  1/2.


His teacher, Miss Laura, asked me to stay after the other moms had left with their toddlers.  She was very solemn.  Daniel was never naughty.  Not at home and not at school, so I was immediately concerned.   She let Daniel continue to "read" in the library corner, and said to me in a hushed voice, "I need to tell you something very serious."  I felt my heart race.  I looked at him.  He seemed fine.  I looked back at Laura and she was clearly very nervous to tell me...
"Yes, what is it?"
"Daniel wants to be Queen Esther in our Purim Parade."
"Oh, ok."
My pulse goes back to a normal beat.
"You know, not Ahashveros, not Mordechai or Haman.  Queen Esther."
"Yes, I get it.  That's fine."
"It's fine?"
"Yes, it's completely fine, let him make the Queen Esther costume."


I looked at my perfectly happy, healthy son and breathed a huge sigh of relief.  Having completed cancer treatments less than a year before and not being sure my next scan would be clean, this was anything but serious.  He identifies with Queen Esther, eh? The hero of the story...I always related more with Vashti, but okay. (I'd be a lot more worried if it were Haman, the evil-doer who wanted to kill the Jews.)
I scooped up my delicious, healthy, son and put him in his carseat and brought him home.


On the day of the Purim parade, there marched my son, with his crown and cape, and he beamed as he knew how great he looked.  (The fact was, the kids made their costumes and they all looked pretty much the same.  Except for the little Hamans.  They had sinister looking black paper hats, and black paper mustaches that fell off about 2 minutes after the parade started.)


Not long after that came the twin cursing incidents of the winter of '92.


I supposed that every family has a story or two like these.  


I had asked my husband to work hard to curb his language when we had children.  He agreed with me that this was a good idea.  It was not just about cursing, but all kinds of language that I did not want our children to ever hear in our house.  I'm proud to say that we do not use "hate," "stupid," or "shut-up" directed at one another to this day.


A bit of history here:  Our two cats, of blessed memory, had been with us for many years and had edged right up into pure decrepitude by this point in our family life.  Not a day went by when one or the other cat didn't miss the litter box entirely, or cost us a fortune at the vet. To say that they were long past bringing us joy is putting it kindly.  One night, little Daniel came in to see my husband very upset about something.  He was muttering and tromping around the living room, and innocently, Daniel asked, "Dad, is it the fucking cats?"


This was immediately followed by a family dinner to our favorite Chinese Restaurant, the Great Wall.  Little Maya was on her daddy's shoulders, and we ran from the car to the doors of the restaurant, through the snowy, slushy parking lot.  I held Daniel's hand on this messy night, right behind them.  As we walked in through the doors, a huge pile of melting snow/slush fell on my husband's bald head, causing him to yell out, "Shit!"  This delighted my toddler daughter to no end: The splash of the snow, the yelling of a brand new word, the excited reaction from me.  The rest of the night, Maya sat in the high chair at the Great Wall restaurant exclaiming "Shit! Shit! Shit!" enjoying her soup and noodles, and mortifying me and my mom, (and probably secretly delighting my dad).  My husband became MUCH more careful about his language after that.


As our kids grew up, the BAN on cursing morphed into a tolerance on cursing, but only when it was funny.  Which was to say, you cannot curse at another family member, but it was okay for comedic effect.


Then there was my ban on weapons.


Easy enough to enforce with our first two children.  Daniel and Maya never missed them.  At other children's homes, they were not interested, and  I was the slightly smug mom who raised the peaceful new generation of mini-hippies.  They shall learn war no more.  Not in my house.  Nope.  Not until "Jack" was born.  Before this little guy was out of the crib, he had turned everything in sight into a weapon.  We still didn't buy him any guns or swords; there was no need!  Each tree branch was a perfect pistol or rifle.  Whether he was a Jedi or a ninja, every toy in the playroom was re-purposed into his trusty weapon, and stowed into his belt.  A favorite sword was the snorkel, which I believe also served as a secret walking stick, until he left it in the movie theater in our town.  He was so utterly despondent we went back to find it, but it had been discarded with the containers of half-eaten pop-corn and overly-sweetened slushies.  Eventually we got Jack a knight costume that came with a little plastic sword, and there was no going back.  


I came to understand that this was the way he needed to play.  Pretending that the plastic knife from the play kitchen was a dagger during the Robin Hood phase satisfied or soothed something in him and allowed him to pretend, in the same way that my older son found joy in creating masterpieces with Legos, and my daughter found outlets with her art kits.  If I had taken away the markers from Maya, she would have found the crayons, take them away and she would find the colored pencils.  Was little Jack going to grow up to be a war-mongering overlord?  I didn't know.  I decided that I would continue to parent as best as I could, trying to monitor what he watched on tv and supervise the way he played with others so that he learned what was and was not appropriate play. Pretending you are pirates on the swingset is okay.  Pushing younger kids off and saying they have fallen off the plank is not okay.  ("That's a time out.  Why?  Because you aren't really a pirate.")


After I said yes to Jack having a sword, and later, a fake gun* from Wild West City** I was pretty sure I knew what I'd say to Daniel when he asked if he could have a Barbie Doll. I can't say I didn't think about it a little bit.  I had a few concerns.  Would he want to bring it to school, and if he did, would he get teased?  Should I insist that he should get a Ken doll? Should I ignore his request and see if he forgot about it?  And the big question... if you buy a boy a Barbie, will that make him gay?  


Let's get that last question out of the way, and let me just say that was for the benefit of any parent who is reading this now and is going through something similar.  Because let's face it.  A toy cannot possibly have the power to change a person's sexual identity.   So the real question was, is there a chance that my child may grow up and realize he's gay?  And will buying him a Barbie now change that later?


Here's what I did, and I am pretty sure I discussed it with my husband, though now I don't remember the conversation.    The kids' babysitter, Meggie wanted to buy the kids each something for Hanukkah, and Daniel had asked her too.  So she asked us if it would be alright, and knowing this was a way that Daniel needed to play, I said yes, please don't spend too much, but sure.  Meggie bought him a Barbie and a Ken, and Daniel was a very happy guy.  He did not ask to bring them to school. 


What lessons did I learn from my children's play habits?  My daughter Maya loved to play with little toy animals, and for a while wanted to be a vet.  She also liked to draw on the walls with Sharpie, but had no inclination to become a graffiti artist.  She now teaches children in an after-school environmental education program.


My older son, Daniel, as it happens is gay.  Jokingly, he says it's because I let him play with the Barbie, but seriously, I think we both know that letting him play with the doll then just means he doesn't need to play with one now, as a 25 year old young man.  He's a teacher and a great role model to young people.


And my son, Jack, who, during his Zorro phase carved a giant "Z" into my parents kitchen table with one of their knives?  Well, we don't know about him yet.  So far he seems to have left his need for weapons behind and has followed in his mother's more peaceful ways, but he's only 18, so we're keeping an eye on him.  After spending the summer as a camp counselor, he probably has a few stories of his own to share.


And after all this thinking and writing... so far, Dianna has not called me.  And these aren't really all my secrets, not by a long shot... just the first few things that came to mind when I thought about my children, and what I had to think, and re-think as parenting theory gave way to parenting reality.   


I wanted to raise each child to be the best most unique person that he or she could be... I hope I am still doing that.












*I did not really say "yes" to the fake gun so much as I didn't have a full-blown fight with my husband in the middle of the OK Corral when he bought it for Jack while I was in the bathroom with Maya.
**Wild West City:  The worst, tackiest theme park in NJ.   So terrible that we had to go there twice during Jack's cowboy phase.  Click here to check it out.